


Daninsky's Letter

by VilaWolf



Category: Paul Naschy, The Daninsky Saga
Genre: Devil worship, Historic War, Magic, Other, Racism, Satanism, Spanish, The Spanish Inquisition, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-31
Updated: 2011-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:44:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/308980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VilaWolf/pseuds/VilaWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daninsky's Letter</p><p>Word Count: 4890<br/>Fandom: The Daninsky Saga<br/>Author: Dea C. Davis aka Vila Wolf</p><p>A one shot fan-fiction for the Daninsky Saga films written and staring (sometimes produced and directed) by the Ever-Eternal Suzerain of Horror; Paul Naschy</p><p>Legal Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Jacinto Molina Alvarez aka Paul Naschy. No copyright infringement is intended and all work was done within Fair Use guidelines. This story has been written for my own enjoyment and for the enjoyment of my friends and readers. No profit ever has or ever will be made from its existence.</p><p>Simple Disclaimer: I own no one and nothing, except for a very warped, messed up mind that likes playing with other people's characters and universes. I make no money from any of this, so please don't sue me. Besides, I've only got about five bucks and half a bottle of whiskey anyway.</p><p>VIVA MOLINA!<br/>VIVA WALDEMAR!</p><p>"FOR HE WHO HOWLS WITH THE WOLF NEVER DIES" - Sarah Cocuzzi</p>
            </blockquote>





	Daninsky's Letter

As you close the door behind you, returning your keys to their happy home, you notice something on the floor before your feet. Something that does not belong. It is a thick envelope of heavy paper, your name written in an elegant hand. Each letter it's own small curving, twisting work of art. Odd you think to yourself. You didn't realize there was a mail slot in the door. A glance over your shoulder as you leave the hallway for a letter opener to open your envelope tells you what you expected all along. There is no mail slot in the door. While the letter's appearance is disturbing, you recognize the curving penmanship and somehow know that the author of the letter means no harm.

“You asked me once to tell you my story. I know that you are no fool and must know a great deal of it already. Much more than you think you do. I know that there has been talk recently about me. Some self proclaimed historians are beginning to wonder if I could have really accomplished everything I am accredited for. For once, it is not possible to exaggerate the sins I have committed.

I have lied to you and to myself for far too long. You have seen me take notes, and write about things I have seen. But never before have I written the things I am about to. Moreover, I feel that I must explain to you why. My name is Waldemar Daninsky and I was born on in the Year of the lord 1555, at 3.33 am. And I am damned. It has become clichéd for me to say such a thing, though in this instance it is quite true, things were very different then from the way things are today.

I was born into a family of wealth, rank and position, in the very heart of the Inquisition. Though it was obvious I had a talent for technical learning, they dared not teach me the arts for fear that they would condemn me to death. Though they will tell you in the history books that very few accused of being witches or wizards were actually burned, it may be true here in this country, I cannot say, but in my home of Espanola, they proved surprisingly efficient at running the fires.. I was trained instead in the art of warfare. My very first memories are of my training to ride, carry a sword and fight. My family was not altogether powerless, no. Since our immigration to the country, we had held much the military might for generations and the King himself had been a close childhood friend of mine

Still, the people were scared. Terrified. It was no surprise that from my youngest days the Inquisition was targeting me. After all, my birth was highly questionable. 3.33 am was, and still is in some places, seen as the Devil's Moment, when he is at his most powerful. The belief was held that Christ died at 3.33pm. The sign of the trinity. Therefor, evil would only choose that time in the am as both its opposite of good, and as a way to mock the trinity. It may seem a foolish idea now, but it was seen that since I was born on that most unholy of times that I was no doubt in league with evil. Should I tell you that the few working clocks of the time were highly inaccurate and fickle things and it is likely I was not born on that most cursed a moment? Hmm, it has no bearing or weight on the story I am telling you, though it does bring home how foolish and superstitious the people of that time were.

I cannot describe to you the fear and ciaos that reigned over the country. I can only say that not even your own family was safe. Parents betrayed their children; Children their parents, Brother betrayed Brother and Sister betrayed Sister. Back then, you were truly alone. Paranoia ruled over all. My own mother La Renia was betrayed by a serving girl for no more than she was seen bathing too regularly. Never had I felt so helpless, as that day. She was taken, tortured, beaten, and then finally burned alive. I was forced to watch her die when I was but a child. All thoughts of safety left me as I watched her burn, never to return to me. The world had become a dangerous place. Then I was taken aside and questioned for days to see wither or not I had been "infected" for lack of another word by her wickedness. Apparently, I answered everything in the correct manner or I think I would not be sitting here writing this account for you. I am telling you this as a way for me to explain the time. I can say fear and terror only so often and they are words that utterly fail to convey the message.

Despite the Inquisition close scrutiny of my life I became the soldier I was trained to be. A General in the Spanish Military with a privet force that rivaled the Kings Army. Philip III and I remained close friends, though Phillip confessed that he would have much rather have been born a common man than King. He did not want the power and the responsibility to rule and spent most of his time at my estate.

And then came the day that I began I training in the realm of the forbidden. My future wife Elisa took it upon herself to teach me what her family had told her. I was twenty at the time we met and by the thirtieth year we were engaged and I knew more of the Black Arts then than the combined forces of the Church of Satan does today. But I dared not use what I knew unless I was absolutely sure of my security. As watched as I was by the Inquisition I could only afford so many prying eyes. Paranoia seemed into my life. If my family held the military might, Elisa's held much of the political power. On the day of our marriage, we became the second most powerful force in Spain. The Inquisition was still going on mind you. As our two houses became one things happened quickly. I don't remember much save for brief snatches of blood and screams that fill my dreams to this day. Elisa had gone quite mad and sought to turn the power of the Inquisition to her advantage.

It was not as hard as you would have thought it would be. I simply received permission from Phillip and Pope Gregory XIII, a close cousin of Elisa's, to form my own Inquisition. I called them La Diablo Ruina. Which can be translated to mean The Devil's Bane. Their main base was the fabled though misnamed Cathedral of Redemption and I used the argument that many of the Inquisitions own had fallen into bribery and sin. It is then that Phillip began to take his distance from me.

Whist I appeared in all public functions a sane minded individual, I was in all actuality a thing possessed. Under various charms and potions I was a puppet of Elisa. I went about my duties as General with only a slightest growing cruelty at first. And then came the night that a being I can only relate to you as Nija, came to me. Elisa and I summoned him together. Nija himself being a god of the underworld, to the people residing in the area now known to day as Poland felt compelled to come as I am descended from those people, my family immigrated to Spain centuries before my birth. Which also gives explanation to the riddle of my name.

It is then that I became the monster of your history books. Whatever sanity I had left in me was gone. I cannot count the number of lives lost by my Bow, Sword, or other devices I tortured, killed, and generally did as I pleased for pleasure. Even when my son was born, Rufin, I did not ease, rather to ensure his safe birth and childhood I killed hundreds. Declaring a state of open warfare on the Inquisition in general. But Nija betrayed me. All that I am known for, all of the violence, gore, death and destruction happened BEFORE I became a werewolf. I was human when I committed those horrible acts. My estate had become a haven for defines of all sorts. All manner of dark and evil creatures had taken to my castle. All save the werewolf. Before I came, humans never ever feared the werewolf. In fact they were celebrated as prized warriors.

He wanted to stop me. That is why he attacked my party and I as we hunted fox one summer day. There were five of us and his pack was of a number more than twice ours. He knew I was insane with power. I do know that he and his pack were killed. But so were my companions and our dogs and horses. I do not know how I made it back to my castle only that I awoke several days later, finally free of all of Elisa's charms and of my own insanity. I awoke nearly unable to lift my mace as I had been bitten on the shoulder. Weak though I was, I was driven by my own horror at finding the entirety of my castle carpeted by a thick ooze of congealing blood an inch deep. I do know how many lives it took to accomplish such a feat but all three floors of my castle had the same carpet.

I thought only of my Wife and Son at the time. Terrified at how I would find them, of what wickedness had dared enter my home. So concerned was I for them, that I did not notice the agonized bodies chained the walls and floors who cowered in terror as I walked past them.

I found Elisa in a bathroom surrounded by the dead bodies of young women, holding my son under the level of blood that filled a large vat. She must have known instantly upon seeing me that I was no longer hers nor Nija's puppet for she screamed and attacked me. My beautiful Elisa... her once pale skin and long black silk of hair thickly matted with congealed the blood of her victims. Her slender fingers and hands twisted into claw like instruments as she attacked me. Those shining pale blue eyes the color of the morning sky were empty of all sanity. I have never in my sane years attacked nor raised a hand against any woman though I was forced to restrain Elisa on that day. I took the body of Rufin out of the vat and laid him on the grand dining table, then calmly and purposefully, I walked each and every room killing anything I found. Though for some reason I do not know, I still did not notice those bound in chains, wounded, and tortured souls of both Mine and Elisa's victims.

On that day, some part of knew that I was a werewolf. That is the only reason I can think of to this day that Elisa's spells no longer worked against me. I took my son and fled to the only safe place I could think of. The estate of my trusted friend and the second in command of my Army. He too had taken his distance from me and did not know of the horrors I had committed. Gabrio had been a trusted friend of mine as long as I can remember. If ever there was a safe place in this world, I knew I would find it at his castle.

It was a several weeks ride by the wagon trail but I with my new-found intimacy of the woods and an all-consuming need to flee the horrors of my home we rode day and night for several days and managed to make the journey in just under a week. I collapsed upon my arrival and I never learned of what had become of my son. Though if he lived, I doubt it. With both Phillip and my friend in attendance, all I needed now was Cardinal Antonio, another of Elisa's kin yet an honest man by all accounts. I trusted him at any rate and I had heard that he had been installed in some position of authority within the "Official" Inquisition.

He came with a full detachment of priests, scribes, and Holy Inquisitors from both sects at my request. When I had regained my strength enough I gathered them all adding to the lot several other high-ranking generals of Phillips as well as my own army. I had quite an audience to tell my story to and I did. I confessed to them everything I could remember. The violence, the blood, the flesh. I was later told by Gabrio that several men went themselves mad at hearing the details.

The Cardinal sent a small band to my estate to gather proof of my claims and the few who managed to return were enough to strengthen my testimony. The rest were found either dead or were said to have turned into vampires. We decided then that Elisa's madness must be eradicated from the earth. We would lay the armies of righteousness against the might of my wife and castle. The combined might of our three army's should have been enough.

We arrived in the early dusk and stayed well outside of the view of those within the castle. The Cardinal and his men moved to the northern face near the lake, Phillip and his army split into two forces, his men had the training and experience needed to handle such a maneuver. To the east you could find the valley and the small village. The West was the direction you would travel if you were in search of a good long, mountain hunt. Leaving the south and the wide forests to my men. I must have estimated ours was the largest single minded force the country had seen since the ancient battles of Rome and Greece. I knew that once battle was joined there would be more than eighty thousand engaged in battle, and still I feared our cause was lost.

Yes, we had the greater numbers, but numbers do not win a war. I knew what Elisa's forces were capable of, having witnessed and participated in the brutality myself. I was afraid that night. My fears lead me to a radical plan. I told Phillip and the Cardinal to wait, while I rode into the nearby village, straight to the town's Consijo and I told them my plan.

It was another two weeks before we were ready. That morning we showed ourselves as the sun rose above the trees. We had not only camped in the immediate fields surrounding my estate, but also had the weapons of a siege made ready. Our ranks were swollen with the residents of the village, and quite uniquely, I had filled the forests to the southeast with women-archers to watch the wagon trails. I hoped to catch Elisa off guard. I had made known her network of spies, and I planned with them in mind.

My Wife sent a delegation to barter a truce, though all were quite as mad as I had last seen her. The King killed all but one and sent him back to Elisa with the heads of his fellows. I once more underestimated Elisa. You see, I had forgotten my flight from the castle, she had seen me before I fled, and the weeks it had taken me to recover enough to so much as sit up in bed and tell my story. Her forces were greater that I would have thought possible. It was as though all of hell had emptied through the doors into the fields.

I sat atop my black stallion dressed in the black half plate armor that had given me my name as the Black Knight, and I charged northward. Using the weapons one would expect from a mounted combatant I rode forward as hard as was possible. The horse was killed quickly and I turned instead to my mace and short sword, reserving my daggers and long sword until I needed them. We lost an eighth of our men in the first charge as well as over a kilometer of ground and we were pushed back into the foothills surrounding the castle and village. Both King and Cardinal were spurred into a furious frenzy when they saw the desecration of the dead below us. The screams of those taken alive by Elisa could be heard to echo through our camp. It was shock and awe, as I never could have planned it.

Some did desert us and I do not think them any less than those who stayed. What they were facing was simply too gruesome a fate. After the terror Elisa conjured, I do not and cannot think them any less a quality of man than those who stayed. Both fortunately and miraculously, the deserters were around five percent of our remaining men. It is a challenge, as any commander would find, even in the best of circumstances, to inspire your men to return to the fields of death once their swords have tasted blood. It was now that King Phillip understood. His country was at stake in ways that no Moor could ever harm it. There are times when we are tested, when we must prove our worth… even if it would mean our death. And so, for the good of Spain we resolved once more to battle Elisa. We simply could not give the country over to her. Justice and God would not allow it when so many had been burned alive and tortured in the name of Spain.

As one the second attack began. We did not split our forces but mixed them. I even took the unprecedented step of recalling the women in from the forests to fight alongside us. We retook ground sword by sword. When I saw her, I did not know my wife. This was not the elegant woman I had fallen in love with. Some demoness from the seventh level of Hades stood in her place. I had planned on attempting to talk some sense into her, but now saw that it would be a waist of my time. I removed my helmet and tossed it aside, trying to show her that it was I. I still loved her; I had sworn my vows to her yet I could not stand by as she destroyed. It was my duty to protect Spain, and yet when the time came, I hesitated. Possessed or not, I had sworn a Holy Vow before God himself that I would protect her!

I raised my sword to par her attack and I knew that I had failed. I could not protect my wife and son, but I would protect Spain. My hand was forced into action. I threw down my shield and the gauntlet of my left hand and I made manifest with my bare hand all of the violent rush of emotions that suddenly burst inside of me. The flash of fire that I conjured was done simply with a combination of powders thrown into the air. She returned the gesture with her own jets of fire that encircled us, burning on the blood soaked earth and I know not if it was by the same means as I created my fire. I struck at her with my short sword and the battle raged between us as though we were the only combatants. We used every magic trick we knew, every battle move we could think of as we attempted to disarm and as we chipped away at each others armor as the ground beneath our feet steadily bleed into the sunset.

I gradually was made aware that the remains of my armor were getting tight and hot. A pulsing pain was growing inside of me and with each beat of my heart the pain grew to a new crescendo. My blood burned as I felt myself slipping. I was loosing hold of my mind as my body decided to pull itself inside out. I understood then why captured werewolves often confessed that they wore their fur under the skin. Elisa, sensing my growing weakness moved closer to me. I raised my hand to touch her soft cheek one last time and with a final howl of rage, grief, pain and despair, I plunged my long sword into her stomach, through her body and into the blood-mud below us.

It seemed as though the moon had heard my cry, for it stopped it's rotation around us. It hung as a great silver orb of a full Semilla Moon above the tops of the forest. The combatants around me seemed frozen in their positions, and in this glorious moment that seemed to stretch into forever I heard something. In that moment where time had stopped I could hear the fleeting laugh of my son.

He sounded happy. It was the laugh he had only when I taught him how to track, or to use the little wooden sword that I had once crafted for him. I could hear his voice through the trees making the hunting calls I had taught him. In that moment I believed myself to be dead. And as that thought came to me, the world returned to its normal state. My body tore itself apart as I made my transformation into a full-blooded werewolf as the battle raged and burned itself out, with myself killing as only a werewolf is able to..

I made my first transformation there on the battlefield and I have been hunted ever since. To the people I was cursed by Elisa into my werewolf nature. To the Inquisition I was a scapegoat to be punished. After all, I had already confessed my part in the whole plot to them. I was put on trial and my own sect, The Devil's Bane was given charge over me. I was taken to the Cathedral of Redemption and there I stayed for a century. I was chained to the walls of my cell and beaten daily. Eventually though my mind folded into itself. I believe it is now called regression. It is a defense mechanism of the mind. When a person is under some great physical or emotional stress the mind will retreat into it's own subconsciousness, leaving the person normally in a coma like state save for the fact they are obviously awake and sometimes even responsive. However, in the case of werewolves, we do not fall into an empty nothingness. We become the wolf that we are entirely. For nearly ninety-five years, there was no Waldemar Daninsky in existence. I was fully and completely an animal. You can imagine that that did little to improve my situation.

Finally, though time's march, the people were had had enough of the Inquisition. Reason was taking hold in my country. My world was gone. All those I knew and cared for were dead. The survivors of the battle for my castle, for the Soul of Spain, were long dead. Their children were either dead or dying. A generation and a half had passed. Those in power wanted to remain in power, as you can imagine. So they formed a plan. Even as an animal I had been somewhat tamed by constant cruelty. In that dungeon I knew who my masters were. The wolf thought that they had come at last to kill me and it drew upon the memory of my mother's death to find the most likely form that death would take. I remember a feeling of gladness that I would finally have an end of my suffering.

Surely by now you would have realized that my masters had no such idea. They would use me to prove once and for all that the devil was indeed real. It was an added bonus to them that they were also able to destroy any good stories about me that had survived. They carted me over the country and I came to know a new terror and fear. Some part of me redefined the meaning of shame and degradation.

As we traveled, they came too near a place I had been a century before. A home I had sacked as a young soldier that also had a bit of a cave system and a creak nearby. The family had been happy until I came. They were Moors. What we called Muslims living in Spain at the time. The wolf that I was knew the sent as a safe and happy place. Free from chains and whips and crowds of staring faces. It was difficult as I had not taken a single step in 100 years and my muscles had atrophied, but I made good my escape. Slowly there hiding the caves near the clearing, I became something of myself again. I even build a proper home for myself. I learned to somewhat control the wolf inside me, though I still have to be chained during the night of the moon. It was 1742 when a traveler came upon my clearing and although I was quite thoroughly terrified, I was also lonely. It was the memory of the Moors and the welcome that they had offered me that I offered the traveler the same welcome.

He was a hunter, lost from his party and he filled me in on the centuries that I had missed out. Or he tried to the best he could. He showed me his new weapons. The black powder rifle and pistol he carried were a particular bit I was fascinated with. I found that with my werewolf abilities, there were weapons I could easily master. Though they were somewhat damaging to my sensitive hearing. It was then that rejoined the world and I have been traveling the across the many countries ever since. Though I often find that my boots will carry me back the Moor's clearing and cave, sometimes even back to my castle if I do not watch them. I try to keep my head down and my tail lower and I am able to pass by quite unnoticed. Sometimes I am found out as a werewolf, leading to still more tragedies, but as of yet no one has been able to kill me. Occasionally my wife will attempt a comeback and I am force to put her down again.

As I write this account of my life to you, I realize that you are the only one who knows the truth of what happened. Am I am evil man? I do not know. I am certainly capable of committing evil acts. But then again so is every other being who walks this earth. My era in the world has come and gone and I feel that it would be quite wrong of me to attempt to step into the limelight once more until I am needed. What I mean to say is that I would hope that I would possess the sense of mind to be able to prevent another massacre of the world. I forget who said it, but it is a truth, "So this is how freedom dies. With thunderous applause".

I do not know if I even have the courage in me to stop others like me from taking control and destroying with such glee. But I do know that freedom to live life is a very precious thing. We can take it. Steal it away from others but we can never ever give it back. As much as we would want to. As much as we regret what we have done, we can never undo the lives we have taken. My place in history is a testament to that single fact. I failed to see that life is more precious than all the gold in the world and people are still being killed because of it. If I have paid for my crimes, I do not know. I cannot tell you if I deserve the freedom of movement that I enjoy to this day. Do I belong back in the Inquisition's Dungeons? That is a question that haunts me to this day, with every passing of the Full Moon.

I hope that you may be able to learn something from my past mistakes and not let yourself be swayed into the wrong path. What you do with this account is entirely up to you. You may keep it, burn it the moment you read it, or give it to others, I do not care. But I feel that I should warn you that I still have enemies out there. The Devil's Bane still exists in one form or another. What they call themselves in this day and age I cannot tell. But I do know that I have encountered a few of them through out time and they want me back. So take care in whom you share my story with. You may also do well to avoid a certain valley in my country, as Elisa continues to haunt it with her vampire ilk.

For what it is worth, The Black Knight of Spain;  
Waldemar Daninsky"

**Author's Note:**

> Every once in a while I'll post it somewhere, throw another coat of polish on it, but it's never up for long. Why? While I know Paul once wrote a ready-to-shoot script in less than two days from start to finish he'd understand that sometimes the pen writes what it writes.... I've never felt it was good enough for him. That he wouldn't like it. I'm playing around with his signature character and it always felt somehow wrong to me.
> 
> It is my way of reconciling the jump nature of the Daninsky films. Every one of the Daninsky movies is it's own stand alone universe and they vary wildly. From the World Weary Anthropologist in Werewolf vs the Yeti, the Neurosurgeon in Fury of the Werewolf to the Knight of Arms in Curse of the Devil so on and down the line. Daninsky once turned up in Feudal Japan battling Ninjas and Tigers. Naschy says in his Memoirs that Daninsky is not bound by time or space, able to travel the multiverse at will, but always burdened with the fate of being Daninsky.
> 
> Not to question the Man, but that's a bit of a cop-out to me. So, I started with the earliest (not by film chronology of course, by the multiverse order) and went from there. Yes, I took as much from the various films as possible. Daninsky is an author in at least two of the films, writing both historic works (A History of Gothic Cathedrals being the title of one of his books) and a ton of Scientific Treatises. So I had his main hobby taking notes and writing and being somewhat skeptical.
> 
> In the films he falls into "the wrong hands" time and again (crazy ex-girlfriends who happen to be Gypsy outcasts carrying around the skull of a werewolf, slinky cat eyed sorceresses, psychotic rival neurosurgeons so on) and part of him LOVES IT. He loves hanging out with them, he loves being evil, for a while at least. Sooner or later someone does something nice for him or someone wakes him up to whats he's doing. He's faced with the reality of it. From waking up covered in blood and gore to being surrounded by pitchfork wielding locals.
> 
> That was a hard one to get around. We actually almost never see Daninsky as a full human being (maybe the first five minutes of the film) but he goes on and on and on about his evil life. Part of it is of course his habit of going rabid when the moon is in flower, I borrowed from his Alaric de Marnac films, where well, he's a first rate bastard in the name of evil for evils sake.
> 
> Another constant in all the Daninsky films is that no good deed goes unpunished. Every single time anyone does anything for the sake of being good, it pushes the body count and mental anguish a little bit higher.


End file.
